


aphasia

by thisstableground



Series: palette [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, M/M, also lowkey autistic alex, lowkey gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstableground/pseuds/thisstableground
Summary: “I’ve seen you get punched in the face and stagger away looking less pained than you do now, Ham. I saw that happen literally yesterday.”“Physical pain is a temporary inconvenience, Laurens, letters are forever."[Alex can't quite find the word he needs. John gets a little insight into Alex's Writerly Process.]





	

“FUCK,” Alexander announces, flinging both his arms into the air and gazing up towards the roof of the tent in exasperation. He’s still holding a quill, so the gesture spatters ink onto his face, though he doesn’t seem to notice it.  
  
Alex, for all his unpredictability, is very consistent in that he has a similar reaction to almost everything. This single loud curse manages to function daily as both melodramatic exaggeration and serious understatement: it could signal anything from “I have an itchy nose” to “yet another improbably tragic and scarring life event has somehow befallen me while I've been sat at this desk”.

Both scenarios are equally likely. John waits. Alex turns towards him.  
  
“What’s the word,” Alex asks. Just that, and then he looks at John as though he’d actually have an answer.  
  
“I’m gonna need a little more than that.”  
  
“The word for. The, uh, the resources one. I can’t,” Alex is frowning so hard that it probably hurts, absent-mindedly chewing the end of his quill. It’s a disgusting habit of his, and it leaves all of their quills looking like they’ve been taken from a pigeon with mange and a seriously turbulent home life. John stands from his bed to pull it out of Alex’s hand before he eats the entire damn thing.  
  
“I can’t imagine why you’d think _I_ would have greater knowledge than our resident wordsmith,” John says, resting the pen on the desk and raising a wry eyebrow at Alexander. By no measure would John judge himself unintelligent, but even the brightest of linguists become dull and dim next to the beacon of Alexander’s eloquence.  
  
“I know it,” Alex says, with a sudden sharp look like he’s worried John might think less of him for not having a flawlessly expansive vocabulary. As if John could ever think less of Alex. “I _know_ it, I just can’t…access it. God, I hate it when this happens.”

Two things occur to John: firstly, he's never seen Alexander struggle for words before. Secondly, Alex is mesmerising in frustration. His eyes are wide and wild, the ink spots across his face a stippled mirror of John’s own freckles. In his lap his hands make fists and then spread wide like trying to stretch out a cramp, as though it actually hurts them to be suddenly stilled from their work.  
  
“I’ve seen you get punched in the face and stagger away looking less pained than you do now, Ham,” says John, amused. “I saw that happen literally yesterday.”  
  
A pointless altercation with some brash idiot. The bruise isn’t a particularly bad one, smudged lightly across Alex’s cheekbone. John prods at it, Alex waves him away. “Physical pain is a temporary inconvenience, Laurens, letters are forever. Besides, it takes very little effort to get punched -“  
  
“ _You_ certainly never have to try very hard at it.”  
  
“- but this… _straining_ , the complete inability to conjure what I know to be the most basic of words, being blocked in what should be the most natural process of my…ugh. It’s like trying to breathe underwater.” He fidgets and lets his hair fall slightly around his face to hide his eyes, seemingly embarrassed. “I know it's ridiculous to be so upset, but I can never seem to help it.”  
  
Perhaps it would seem ridiculous to most others, but it makes too much sense to John. Words flow in and out of Alex as freely and necessarily as air, and John knows well enough that even a few short moments of stolen breath can set the world tilting out of perspective. He won’t tease about this: it's rare for his friend to admit to weakness, and John wouldn't have him regret sharing.  
  
“Give me the context, I’ll throw some suggestions at you,” he says instead. Alex peers up through the curtain of his hair, dark eyes fond.

“Can't get the sentence until I figure this word out, but I’m attempting to suggest that our most esteemed Congress are skimping on resources to the extent that it gravely endangers the endeavours of us unlucky few, starving in cold tents in the name of our nation.”  
  
“How about 'fucking skinflints',” John suggests, and Alex barks laughter.  
  
“His Excellency has on too many occasions had to request I tone down my, uh,  _honesty_ in deference to feelings regarding profanity, and you know that I take some satisfaction in presenting letters that are above criticism, else I’d absolutely use that very apt description. No, it’s, hm. Frugal? No, of course not, that implies some kind of justification to their excessive caution.” Alexander drums his fingers against his thigh in distress. “I know how the word feels, I just can't get the shape of it.”  
  
“Stingy?”  
  
Alex shakes his head. “The meaning's right, the sound's wrong. Too sharp. It’s a more cloying sort of word, something slick and sour.”  
  
Not for the first time, John wishes he could see the process of Alexander’s thoughts. It’s more than just a mastery of the language: when Alex touches a word it becomes in turn a thing that _can_ be touched, a physical object to be held and tasted. Perhaps it is related to his multilingual upbringing, the sensory functioning as a metaphor to translate between his mixed tongues. John suspects, though, that it’s something more inherent to Alexander’s personality, the very shape of his mind. He doesn't write, he _creates_.

John’s own mind does not work in such a way. He settles for suggesting any synonyms that he can think of. Miserly, covetous, and tight-fisted are respectively dismissed as too grey, too lustful, too plosive. Each dismissal is carefully parsed, with a slowness rarely present in Alexander’s rapidfire speech. The subtleties don’t necessarily make sense to John, but he gets the impression that Alexander is trying to guide him at least partway down the strange and vibrant paths of his brain.

“Avaricious” gets a moment’s pause, but “no, I thought you had it there, it’s not quite…Keep going.”  
  
John is running out of words. “Okay. Um…selfish?” No. “Penny-pinching?”

Alex makes a truly bizarre strangled noise, standing rapidly and slamming both of his hands into the table. The inkpot wobbles, dangerously close to Alex's work. John catches it without looking, instead watching Alex for signs of victory. But Alex is still frowning, shaking his head dizzyingly fast. John sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m probably not helping at all.”

“No, I’m just, it’s right there, shut the fuck up for a second and -“ Alex reaches a hand out as if to either shove John away or pull him in closer, and then just sort of stops.

They stay there, a frozen tableau, Alexander gazing either into or straight through John’s eyes. John is a little bit flustered and a lot bit scared to do anything, in the same way one might become very wary of sudden movement when confronted by an aggravated bear. There’s a strong chance Alex might gouge John’s face off if he spooks him.

After what is probably a full two minutes, Lafayette walks in and pauses briefly to take in the scene. Alex is still staring, his face only inches away from John’s, hand hovering above John’s chest. His eyes are narrowed in concentration but glassy. John tries to make a face at Lafayette that says “I don’t know what’s happening but please save me”. Something apparently gets lost in translation, because Lafayette just smoothly reverses out of the tent and abandons John to whatever the hell this is.

Alexander’s lips are now moving soundlessly in some unheard monologue. That catches John’s attention for a moment, but since Alex also looks more than a little unhinged right now the effect is mostly just unsettling.

“Are you going to kill me,” John is about to ask, but he doesn’t get further than “are y-“ when Alex startles back into himself, smacks his hands none too gently into John’s face and yells “parsimonious!”. John revises his statement to the more succinct “um, _ow_?”

“Parsimonious! You’re a genius, Laurens, I knew it was something absurdly easy but I simply could not get it to manifest, sorry I hit you, I got overexcited. Parsimonious. A slithering, almost _oily_ meanness, hard to grasp but lingering in its unpleasantness. Of _course_. Oh, my dear Laurens, where would I be without you? Ha!” Alex crows a laugh, looking flushed and delighted. It suits him as well as frustration did.  
  
“You’re welcome,” John says, not bothering to point out that really all he contributed was baffled silence and a face within slapping range. Alex is already writing furiously again. John lays back down on his bed and touches the slight warmth of his cheek where Alex’s hands had made contact. Tonight, as it does every night, the sound of a quill frantically scratching follows him into dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> [a/n: Ironically, the title isn’t quite the word I wanted for the sensation of not quite having the word you wanted, but since I don’t have a John Laurens to stare at until inspiration strikes I just settled. Throw me some prompts if you feel like, I could write Alexander all fuckin' day, all fuckin' year.]


End file.
